"My stockings there I often knit, My kerchief there I hem; And there upon the ground I sit-- I sit and sing to them.
"And often after sunset, sir, When it is light and fair, I take my little porringer, And eat my supper there.
"The first that died was little Jane; In bed she moaning lay, Till God released her of her pain, And then she went away.
"So in the churchyard she was laid; And when the grass was dry, Together round her grave we played, My brother John and I.
"And when the ground was white with snow, And I could run and slide, My brother John was forced to go, And he lies by her side."
"How many are you, then," said I, "If they two are in heaven?" The little maiden did reply, "O master! we are seven."
"But they are dead; these two are dead! Their spirits are in heaven!" 'T was throwing words away; for still The little maid would have her will, And said, "Nay, we are seven!"
"I hear thee speak of the better land; Thou call'st its children a happy band; Mother! oh, where is that radiant shore? Shall we not seek it and weep no more? Is it where the flower of the orange blows, And the fireflies dance through the myrtle boughs?"-- "Not there, not there my child!"
"Is it where the feathery palm trees rise, And the date grows ripe under sunny skies? Or midst the green islands of glittering seas, Where fragrant forests perfume the breeze, And strange bright birds on their starry wings Bear the rich hues of all glorious things?"-- "Not there, not there, my child!"
"Is it far away, in some region old, Where the rivers wander o'er sands of gold? Where the burning rays of the ruby shine, And the diamond lights up the secret mine, And the pearl gleams forth from the coral strand? Is it there, sweet mother, that better land?"-- "Not there, not there, my child!"
"Eye hath not seen it, my gentle boy; Ear hath not heard its deep songs of joy; Dreams cannot picture a world so fair,-- Sorrow and death may not enter there; Time doth not breathe on its fadeless bloom; For beyond the clouds and beyond the tomb, It is there, it is there, my child!"
You'd scarce expect one of my age To speak in public, on the stage; And if I chance to fall below Demosthenes or Cicero, Don't view me with a critic's eye, But pass my imperfections by.